Failure to Connect
by Ruralstar
Summary: The emotional outburst outside of Joe's bar causes Owen to reexamine his personal problems and take tentative steps in a more positive direction. A/N This is an Owen centric story but his burgeoning relationship with Cristina is an important aspect.


"Failure to Connect"

"_I couldn't connect."_

_"I lost."_

Owen could not stop shaking. The adrenaline suffusing his system had dimmed the colors of the alley to shades of mud-brown and bloody crimson. Gouts of laughter and soulful pop music bleeding through the bricks of the bar buffeted his body, forcing him to place a steadying hand on the wall. He felt weak and nauseous with guilt. Cristina's retreating footsteps had faded into the hum of Seattle traffic, but he could still hear them. An echoing metronome of resentment and pity in the wake of momentary compassion—her attempt to connect severed at inception.

He had come to Joe's Bar to drown memories, both old and new. The events of the day should have been enough to send the surgeons of Seattle Grace home to their respective partners where commiseration would undoubtedly lead to intimacy of one form or another. Owen expected to be alone. He sat at the bar knowing the barman would recognize the glazed look in his eyes for the warning it was meant and simply serve him without questions.

Owen's tension had just begun to recede when Cristina, Callie Torres and Mark Sloan entered the bar. They quietly made their way to a table and ordered one round of drinks and then another. Their conversation was uncharacteristically somber, which made them impossible to ignore. Unable to maintain the numbness so carefully cultured by single Malt Scotch, Owen left a half shot on the bar and slipped out the back door hoping to avoid any sort of interaction.

Intent on retreat, Owen did not hear the bar door open or the click of footsteps on the cracked cement. The touch of Cristina's hand on his arm was electric. Wrenching free, Owen spun around instinctively prepared to fight. The ghosts of the past resolved into Cristina's soft features, devoid of their usual apathy as she stammered, "I'm sorry."

Two simple words destroyed the last vestiges of his crumbling self-control. The flare of temper should not have happened, could never happen again. A resolution Owen knew for impossible even as he forced Cristina backwards across the breadth of the alley. They both had secrets. On his first day back he had told her more than anyone else about the events that lead to his discharge, an act of self-preservation as much as honesty. Cristina had returned the favor a week later, sharing a part of her past in an attempted to do what he could not…not anymore. In The Before there was laughter. Flirtation fueled by unexpected attraction. There was the guise of adventure in a world fraught with death. He could see her then, touch her, know her—he could connect. This was The After. Cristina could not even say his name. He was no longer a person to her or himself, so there was no reason to give her the chance.

The creak of the bar's back door jarred Owen back to the present. He turned and strode rapidly down the alley away from the noise and heat of humanity. The scents of trash and urine assaulted his nose and he began to jog. He was running full out when he burst out into the parking lot at the end of the alley. One hundred feet away a stretch of rusty chain link fence separated the lot from the street. Owen stopped just short of it, gasping hoarsely as the damp air burned down his throat.

_"I don't need sorry!"_

"_I don't need you!""_

Owen turned and leaned his back against the fence. The words had been a lie. He had scared the hell out of Cristina and himself. Once released fear, rage and desperation flowed unchecked. He felt their heat in his cheeks and heard it in his voice. Her warm brown eyes were a perfect mirror as he pushed her back against the wall. The kiss came unbidden and uncontrollable. This was not how he wanted her but he did not have the strength for even token resistance. There was too much death and too much truth in what Timothy Miller had said just before agreeing to the surgery.

There had not been time to learn Timothy's whole story but Owen knew it nevertheless. He was living the early stages and the realization had nearly overwhelmed him. If not for Derek's quiet presence he would not have been able to convince Timothy to have the surgery. In The Before he would have recognized the patient's refusal as a snap decision born of pain and fear. Now he was too close to be objective. Derek and Mark were right. Owen disregarded his fractured conscience and assisted in a surgery that was doomed from the outset just to prove them wrong. The petulant aspects of that decision were further indications of how far he had fallen. One could argue that the surgery was sanctioned euthanasia but Owen could not venture down that road. Instead, he adhered to the Hippocratic Oath without heart or conscience. True empathy lay in the sands of Iraq and could not be unearthed without reliving memories better left to the objective pages of psychology texts.

Owen jammed his hands into his pockets and looked up. The heavens were a gauzy orange-tinted shroud over the city. Here and there pockets of stars glinted. He shivered, remembering the vast open skies of the desert. The feelings of isolation that crept into your soul and made you yearn for home with quiet desperation. There was no peace in such solitude. Reconciliation of purpose with morality was left to each man to decide for himself. Owen had thought himself quite successful until the ambush. Peace became pieces of soul shaved and crushed to dust as each man—or what was left of them—in his unit was shipped stateside. Stars brought memories and in them Owen saw their names. He drew a shaky breath as the roster unwound through memory: John F. Darrel P. Ken H. Ralph A. Tim…. Owen swallowed hard as the connection between his dead patient and his past coalesced.

Corporal Timothy Dahner's shock of thick black hair and pale hazel eyes made him look far younger than his thirty years. He loved to laugh and those eyes would grow large and golden whenever the mood struck. Timothy had a fiery redhead for a wife. She adored him and showed her love with monthly care packages. Those simple brown boxes contained a variety of necessities and always a carton of Mars bars, Tim's favorite candy. The last box held another treasure, a picture of their newborn son. Three days later Timothy was so much gore in a body bag; light and laughter permanently extinguished.

Owen dragged a hand down over his cold cheeks and pushed away from the fence. The name had been the catalyst as much as the extensive injuries of Timothy Miller. Reminders he could not control, realities that would continue to intrude so long as he stayed in the medical field. There were only two choices left. Leaving Seattle Grace meant giving in to the enemies of fear, guilt, rage and sorrow. Staying meant dealing with the memories, good and bad, and accepting the help of others.

A light rain began to fall as Owen crossed the parking lot and exited on to the street. He was a man of science but war had made him painfully aware of the necessity of faith. The idea that Timothy Miller's death was meant to be the impetus of change in his life was not a comfortable one to consider. Owen was grateful for the mirror however, and resolved to find out exactly who Miller was and if anyone was looking for him.

Owen rounded the corner and stopped mid-stride. Icy guilt reasserted itself as he caught sight of Cristina Yang across the street. She was standing in front of a large window display of photographs. Black and white images of people and landscape.

Desert landscapes.

Owen licked his lips. What were the chances that Cristina would stop long enough for their paths to cross a second time that night, let alone in front of a travel agency featuring African and Asian vacation destinations? The absurdity of the situation brought a fleeting smile to his lips. He watched her, considering what he could possibly say. The decision slipped out of his reach as she abruptly turned and continued down the street and around a distant corner.

Her disappearance deepened the chill spreading through Owen's body. He rubbed absently at his forehead, feeling the first stirrings of a massive headache. Sleep would be welcome respite if only he could avoid the dreams. Shrugging the tension from his shoulders, he turned in the opposite direction Cristina had walked. Apologies would have to wait until she knew he meant it—until he could connect.


End file.
